poems about love

O Lord! whose forming hand one blood
To all the tribes and nations gave,
And giv'st to all their daily food,
Look down in pity on the slave!

Fetters and chains and stripes remove,
Deliv'rance to the captives give;
And pour the tide of light and love
Upon their souls, and bid them live.

Oh! kindle in our hearts a flame
Of zeal, thy holy will to do;
And bid each one, who loves thy name,
Love all his bleeding brethren too.

Through all thy temples, let the stain
Of prejudice each bosom flee;

Ah me! what envious magic thins my fold?
What mutter'd spell retards their late increase?
Such less'ning fleeces must the swain behold,
That e'er with Doric pipe essays to please.

I saw my friends in evening circles meet;
I took my vocal reed, and tuned my lay;
I heard them say my vocal reed was sweet:
Ah, fool! to credit what I heard them say.

Ill-fated Bard! that seeks his skill to show,
Then courts the judgment of a friendly ear;
Not the poor vet'ran, that permits his foe

If proud Pygmalion quit his cumbrous frame,
Funereal pomp the scanty tear supplies;
Whilst heralds loud, with venal voice, proclaim,
Lo! here the brave and the puissant lies.

When humbler Alcon leaves his drooping friends,
Pageant nor plume distinguish Alcon's bier;
The faithful Muse with votive song attends,
And blots the mournful numbers with a tear.

He little knew the sly penurious art;
That odious art which Fortune's favourites know;
Form'd to bestow, he felt the warmest heart,

I Sawe of late a wofull wight,
That wyllow twigges did winde to weare:
Whose face declarde the pensife plight,
Which he through loue did present beare.
He lookte aloft as though he would
Haue clymed to the starry skies,
But still he stood as though he could
Not once lift vp his heauie thies.
His feathered hands he forced forth,
And thyther fayne he would haue fledde,
But wofull man it was no worth,
For all his limmes were lade with ledde.
You are the bright and starrie skye,
I am the man in painefull plight:

Would you, my friend, for-e'er remove
From all the pangs of hopeless love?
Go — take the lover's leap, and break
At once your passion, and your neck.

I love thee for thy friendship, which to me
Hath still been true while all were false beside:
I love thee for thy love of Poesy,
And for thy art therein — which is thy pride,
And should be so; I love the melody
Which dwells deep in thy soul, and in a tide
Of silver-toned absorbing witchery,
Rushes upon the listening heart. — Allied
With these fine qualities, I also see
Virtues which raise the heart where they reside
Above the cold world's level: and must be
Prized as gems rich and rare, to most denied:

Let lovers sigh for night,
In their young fancy sweetest,
When pale Luna's gentle light
The eye greetest.

Let them lovingly stray
The calm cool groves among,
When every sound has died away,
And night is young.

I love the tranquil hour
Just as the broad sun sets,
When Zephyr with dew from his bow'r
The king-cup wets.

'T is then the purer heart
Feels joy it cannot smother,
When day and night seem loth to part,
And kiss each other.

And I have drank of bliss

( " Toutes les passions s'eloignent avec l'âge. " )

As life wanes on, the passions slow depart,
One with his grinning mask, one with his steel;
Like to a strolling troupe of Thespian art,
Whose pace decreases, winding past the hill,
But nought can Love's all charming power efface,
That light, our misty tracks suspended o'er,
In joy thou'rt ours, more dear thy tearful grace,
The young may curse thee, but the old adore.

Whilst Ovid here reveals the various arts
Both how to polish and direct their darts,
Let meaner beauties by his rules improve,
And read these lines to gain success in love:
But Heav'n alone, that multiplies our race,
Has pow'r t' increase the conquests of your face.
The Spring, before he paints the rising flow'rs,
Receives mild beams and soft descending shew'rs;
But love blooms ever fresh beneath your charms,
Tho' neither pity weeps nor kindness warms.
The chiefs who doubt success assert their claim

Come idle urchin, treach'rous boy,
Thou dang'rous play-thing, transient joy:
Thy restless pinion hither bend,
Or on thy mother's dove descend;
Or on a fragrant gale repose,
Fresh from the bosom of a rose;
Or on a sun-beam hither hie,
Or bear thee on a balmy sigh!
Oh come, while yet th' impulse is warm,
To realize thy Proteus form,
Come, arm'd with all thy magic arts,
Thy quiver, arrows, bow and darts;
Come with thy legion of delusions,
Call up thy phalanx of illusions;

Embody all thy arch conceptions,